“I’m doing my best!” He chuckles, but then his tone turns serious. “How short are you this month? Is the office job not paying enough? Do you not like it?”
“Short enough,” I sigh. I don’t like talking about my money shit with him. He’s got his own stuff to deal with and worry about. “I don’t like the office job.”
It fucking sucks. I hate it. I feel like I’m dying a little bit inside every shift.
“Fighting like this—to make more money quickly, not because you actually like it—and gettingthisfucked up in the process is better?”
“Look, it takes me a week and a half to make what I could from one fight. I can’t keep working there, Ashe. I hate it.”
“Then come work atFrom The Ashes. You’re a talented artist, you’re good with the machine. So, come and be a tattoo artist. We’ll figure out salary and all that shit later, but come work at the shop more, not just absent co-owner. Artist.”
“Really?”
“Fuck yeah, man,” Asher says excitedly, tying the second stitch. Hissing, I wait for him to cut the thread and sit up. My fucking head feels like it’s been in a vice. “I’ve been waiting to ask you. The tattoo you gave me was badass. With a bit more fine-tuning, you could definitely be a sought-after artist. At the very least, we’d get to work together and you’d get paid well.”
“I never thought I’d be a tattoo artist.” I shrug painfully, but as I look at Asher, I can’t help but think how amazing it would be. I’d get to create daily, I’d get to design and bring art to life. Plus, Asher’s my best friend, basically my brother, so working together would go well.
“If you’re not sure, let’s try it out for like, six months. If you feel more fulfilled, then we can extend it again. If you don’t like it, no harm, no foul. But I think it’s our calling, man.” Asher puts the healing ointment over the stitches and the pressure makes me cringe. “But you have to stop fighting like this. I get every so often to supplement or if you just need to blow off some steam, but not to survive. Okay?”
“Asher,” I sigh. He knows my family situation. He knows why I do this. The same reason he hustles so hard. To create a better life for ourselves and our families.
Asher spent his whole life looking after and providing for his little brother. Did everything in his power to keep them afloat when his drugged-out mom shut down. My family, while we didn’t have a lot, shared whatever we could with his so that they’d make it. Until we couldn’t anymore.
And it all fell on me after my father passed away, the last thing he asked was that I take care of the family in his place. To not ask extended family for help, to just work hard and keep everyone safe. I’m the oldest son. The one that is looked to for everything. To provide through hardships.
My mom doesn’t make enough to support the three boys she has living under her roof; all growing like weeds, and keeping the roof over their heads. It’s not enough.
“How much do they need?” he asks softly, knowing exactly where my thoughts went.
“Two grand will get them through the next month and a half. I made that tonight. I can rest easy knowing my little brothers and mom won’t be out on the streets.”
“I’ll give that to you. Call it payback for all the meals your mom gave to Hunter and I.”
“No, Asher, it’s fine.”
“Seriously, Ty. Let me help. You helped me a lot with the startup of the shop and all that, let me give a little bit back. I don’t think I have the cash to give you two thousand right now, but I’m good for a solid grand.” Asher stands up and walks over to his small desk in his living room, pulling out a small black bag.
“Here,” he shoves it into my hands. “Come work with me, makeFrom The Ashesthe best tattoo shop in the state, and let’s get paid.”
I roll the bag filled with cash in my hands, thinking it over.
But what is there to think of really?
“Let’s do it, brother.”
Laying on the couch, which is even more uncomfortable with all my fucking injuries, I do my best not to move. Moving hurts…everything and Asher already went to sleep, Mario went back home. So here I lay.
The darkness gives me time to think about what I saw.Her.
There’s no way she was really there, but it’s like my mind knew I needed the push to get out of there. It’s interesting to me—maybe it shouldn’t be though—that my brain chooses Roxie as what I need to see to keep going.
My fingers trace the cord on my wrist. The knot has come undone a few times, but I’ve always retied it. Over and over. It hasn’t left my wrist even when I never got a response back.
For any of the emails I’ve sent her over the years. Six years is a long time…
They say time heals, but the pain of losing her, the anger of being robbed of something Iknowwas going to be life-changing… That hasn’t gone away. I only miss her more.
Before tonight, I’d been getting better. I hadn’t had an ‘episode’ in months.
